The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1887-09-04

/
beyond me. A fragment from Mrs. Brown
ing came into my head:
''Nfv heart Is very tired-my strength is low
Ny hands are fun of blossoms plucked before,
| Held dead within them till myself shall die"
Sweetest of poets. The words stirred my
soul to its depths, and the last barrier OF self
restraint gave way. l covered my face
with both hands, and reckless sobs burst
| from me. Like hurt child, felt there
was nothing left me but to sob out my pain
in wild weeping. Then a hand was laid on
( my head, with touch as tender and rever
| ent as a woman's. 1t was the doctors. |
did not look UP or speak to him, but
listened, like child again, to his quiet,
soothing tones. Not that he said much. |
! scarcely know what he said. But surprise,
grief, and most tender sympathy, knew he
! felt
So let him lead me to the sofa, where
dropped my head again. The tears, once
started, seemed to flow from fathomless
depths, and l could not stay them. When
l could look at him, | was struck by the
stern, sad composure of his face.
1T is as l feared" he said, 'you have
broken down at last, under this unnatural
strain. You are only woman, you see,
after all, with flesh, and blood, and nerves"
There / interrupted him, impatiently.
| told him that | was far less than a true
woman, or he would never have seen me SO
weak. begged him to so away. said he
had no right to be there, when wanted no
one. He took my hands then, and held
| them, and spoke to me as he never had be-
fore; with a certain air of authority that |
submitted to becnuse--I could not help it.
He said he knew what this meant, that
was wearing out my strength with the life
of confinement | led He said (Which
certainly was not truel that was sacrific-
ing the best part of my life to Edith; that
while it seemed most beautiful to him, yet
he could not bear to Sue it; that / needed
change and rest, and that l must have it.
''If you value your life, y he was saying.
I had been listening to him with that dreary
listlessness that follows sharp pain, mental
or physical,
II mean this very seriously" he went on
''If you set any value on your life"
My wits were sadly at sea, for mingled
with the passionate protest that rose to my
lips, the words an old woman had once said
to me of her little sick child that had cried
out, 30, | wish 1 could die y kept repeating
themselves in my brain, with ludicrous
appropriateness. ea
"To think it should set so little vally on
its little life" the woman had said of the
child, and she had laughed and laughed, as
if it were q wonderful jokei
How we had laughed, too, not at the
child, but the woman--ahi and then there
came picture of myself and Josie in those
careless days of early youth, laughing at
everything in very gladness Of heart.
'If you place any value on your lifep'
The words, repeated earnestly, brought me
back to the present. / answered bitterly
Why should | value it9 Was it SO fair a
thing! l begged him again to leave me
alone. was tired-sick of my life. l can
not tell you how these words seemed to
grieve him. He said that if did not value
it, it was most fair, most precious to him.
Then he spoke once more of his love. He
said that only God knew what it would he
to him to have me for his wife, but that if
he had not seen me unhappy he would never
have asked me again. He knew, he said,
how bitter must be the grief that could
wiring such tears from me. He said he was
very lonely, but he should live all his life
alone, unless | came TO him; he could never
marry another woman, having known me.
''If you love no one else better he looked
earnestly into my eyes while he emphasized
the words, ''you may learn to care tor me a
little. Bessie, my brave, sweet Bessie, am
I asking too much. Am 1 gri4ving you so
much, my childN
The foolish tears were binding me again.
Then he bent over me and said he would go
away, that / could not think how those
tears unnamed him. He asked me to think
of what he had said, and begged me not to
let the thought Of his grief at. losing me in
v Il
it could content itself with nothing better
than his great love. He said again that he
would not have troubled me if he had seen
me happy; that he would come for my
answer tomorrow, and then he babe me
good night.
And, when he came next day, laid my
hand in his and told him that would marry
him. that l did not love him as had
thought / should love the man | married
| Io,1ft hat I aud
his sympathy was very sweet to me. | do
not yet know if | have been true to myself
and to him. How can we tell always what
is in this puzzling human heart of ours! ''If
/ know my own heart" we sometimes say,
but do we ever quite get at the bottom Of
its changing moods? To-day we long with
bitter yearning for something which we had
yesterday, but, having, did not prize!
When l am with Robert there is a quiet
sense of being tenderly protected, that is
infinitely soothing, but with that kind of
self-reproach, q feeling that | am receiving
very much more than | can ever give. He
seems very happy. We have been planning
some improvements in his already elegant
place. His mother died three years ago,
and he has lived there alone since then
know that l am not good enough for Rob
ert but hope he will make me better.
must always be better woman for having
| known two such stroug, sweet natures as his
and my brother Harold's. They were dear
to each other, and it seems but right that,
having lost one, should look up to and love
the other, for his sake. 1t is wrong, is it
not, when ones destiny seems carved out, to
have other plans or dreams? | think I am
learning to be sensible.
June 17-How do trespass on your kind
ness Your second letter, received yester-
day, has encouraged me to send what have
written. 1t is strange that you should
fancy i had changed toward you--very
strange / must send this now, if only to
prove how mistaken you were. II is a little
sad that we both should have been disap-
pointed in that first meeting. The truth IS,
| you did not stay long enough to get over
the strangeness of being together. You will
come again, will you not9 But will it be
the samel Will anything be the same
when / am-theres There is dangerous
element of freedom in my nature. cannot
bear to settle, though ] am quite old enough
If had been a boy should have been o
sailor, perhaps. We might have sailed
around the world together. have already
! learned to be obedient
/ have left Edith, with my work, in Rob
ert's care, and have come to make Josie a
visit She is very lovely as wife. She is
n peerless woman. There are no rough
| edges in her character 10 be smoothed over
with ever so much trouble. She is so
thoroughly sunshiny and radiates bright
/ mage in avary direction She is Ona of tboea